


The Prince and the Pauper - but not really

by Niitza



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fairy Tale, Crack, Fluff, Impala, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-31
Updated: 2015-08-31
Packaged: 2018-04-18 08:12:23
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,757
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4698725
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Niitza/pseuds/Niitza
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It's the classic fairytale: Once upon a time, in a kingdom far far away, there lived a beautiful Princess, beloved by her people. Unfortunately her Evil Stepmother, who desired the throne for herself, had her kidnapped on a moonless night and locked in the highest room of the highest tower of a lost castle. From then on the Princess' only hope rested in the coming of her Prince Charming to the rescue…<br/>Except for the fact that the beautiful Princess is actually a Prince who has better things to do than wait in that tower, the Evil Stepmother a bunch of Evil Conspirators who really haven't thought things through, and the Prince Charming nothing but a Commoner hoping to make some money from grateful parents and ending up with something else entirely.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Prince and the Pauper - but not really

Once upon a time, in a land far far away, there lived a young woman named Mary. She might not have been a Princess, but she certainly had the beauty and pure heart of the most admirable daughters of kings. She was beloved by everyone in her village and by her husband most of all, a proud and brave young man named John. Their union, which had been the source of much rejoicing, had been blessed by the birth of a child, a little boy bright as a ray of sunshine, with eyes green as grass and hair blond like the surrounding fields. They called him Dean.

Just when it seemed their happiness couldn't be fuller another child was born, another son, little Sam. He soon became his whole family's pride and joy, until—

—until they all discovered that the fairytales Mary loved and read to her sons every night before bed were nothing but that: tales. And that reality was a lot more crueler than the worst of them.

On a moonless night the village was attacked by an unknown monster. It killed everyone it encountered, burned down every house. Woken up by the first cries Mary and John took their children to the nearest woods and told them to hide and wait for one of their parents to fetch them. Then the young couple returned to the village to help their neighbors flee or fight.

Little Dean cowered for hours in the dark, holding baby Sam in his arms and straining his ears to hear, his eyes to see.

In the morning their father came back for them. His face was covered in soot, his hands littered with small cuts and burns, his eyes… hollow. He was alone.

The monster was gone. It had fled at the first hints of dawn.

Mary was gone too.

She was buried at the edge of the village, with all the other victims of the attack.

John was never the same. In the months that followed he helped those who wished to stay rebuild their houses, helped those who wished to leave gather what they could from the ruins of their homes. When all of this was done and life started to go back to normal—or as normal as it could be given the circumstances—he disappeared.

Everyone knew where to: he had left to track the beast that had taken his wife and kill it. Or maybe have it kill him too.

Left behind, little Dean and Sam ended up in the care of one of the survivors, their neighbor Missouri.

When she died of old age they were taken in by the Pastor of the closest town.

When he died at the hands of a demon he'd been trying to save, they took off on the road and were picked up by a Blacksmith on his long journey home.

They became his apprentices. By then Dean was fourteen, Sam ten. All they had left from their parents was a small amulet that had once belonged to their father and a storybook that had once belonged to their mother—two items Dean had salvaged from the ruins of their house. They were his most precious possessions. He constantly wore the amulet around his neck, and every single night since the Pastor had taught him how to read he chose a story from the book. He read it out loud to Sam, trying to remember his mother's voice and the exact tone she'd used.

They stayed with Bobby—that was the name of the Blacksmith—for years. Yet as they grew older, they realized that it couldn't remain that way. Bobby lived in a poor small town. He didn't get much work—not enough to keep two apprentices busy—and didn't earn a lot of money—not enough to feed two more mouths, especially not that of two grown boys. He couldn't keep the both of them with him forever.

Since he was the elder brother Dean felt like the matter was his responsibility. He thought about it for a long time. One solution would've been for him to leave, to go sell his acquired skills elsewhere. But that would've meant being separated from Sam, maybe forever, and in the wake of their parents' death and of all they'd been through since then, it was the last thing they wanted. For that very reason they couldn't send Sam to become a scribe's apprentice either, despite his gift with letters and numbers and his thirst for knowledge. They hadn't enough money to travel together for any length of time with no clear aim in sight nor any guarantee they'd find employment. They could've looked for work elsewhere in the village, but everyone was about as poor as Bobby, with families to feed and no room for another member, much less two, in their household.

In the end, the answer came from their mother's old book, which Dean still leafed through every evening.

In the stories, there was always a Princess, and she always needed to be rescued. Most of the time it was done by a Prince. But Dean knew the book by heart and he remembered stories in which the hero _wasn't_ a Prince, but a Commoner. And in the end that distinction never mattered: what counted wasn't the nobility of a hero's blood, but the truth and bravery of his heart. Having proven himself while rescuing the Princess, he was acclaimed when he brought her back to her kingdom, and despite their differences of birth they'd marry and live happily—and richly—ever after.

Now, Dean wasn't an idiot. He knew that fairytales were fiction and had learned the hard way that it wasn't the same as reality at all. So he knew that a Commoner like him could never hope to marry a Princess, no matter how great his deeds were. But he also knew that even the wildest stories always held a grain of truth. So he felt safe in assuming that Princesses could indeed be kidnapped, as a way to blackmail their parents or to put a royal succession into jeopardy, and that any royal parent would be extremely thankful _and_ generous towards her savior, no matter who he was.

Dean wouldn't ask for much, too: just a house he could call home, and some land to grow food, and a little bit of money to buy hens and a cow, maybe some tools. It would be enough for him and Sam. It was more than what they'd ever had.

It was a great plan, if he said so himself. Sam and Bobby didn't agree, not even when he pointed out that it was a better way to gain some money than stealing from rich people—which was illegal—or retaking it from a dragon—which was suicidal. And once the idea had planted itself in his head, it wouldn't leave him alone.

On his twenty-first birthday, he took his decision. He put on his most solid clothes, slid a knife into his belt and set off on his horse Impala's back.

He would find a Princess, he swore to himself, he'd save her and he and Sam and Bobby would get a happily ever after.

 

*

 

Meanwhile, in the highest room of the highest tower of a lost castle far far away, a Prince—not a Princess—was waking up.

He had an horrendous migraine. With a frown he made a grab for his pillow, intent on burying his head underneath and ignoring the rising sun.

He snorted when his hand was met with nothing but a lumpy, flat thing instead of the plush feather cushion he was used to. At the same second he realized how scratchy and threadbare the sheets and blanket felt under him—and that was another thing: since when did he sleep _on_ his bed instead of _in_ it?

He opened his eyes and was met with an unfamiliar room. He straightened up, but although his vision swam, making him bring a hand to his temple, what it showed him didn't change. Confused and irritated, he staggered out of bed.

He went to the door, only to find it locked.

He went to the window, only to find it opening onto a sheer drop.

He leaned through the window, only to see, much farther down, the cracked walls of a deserted castle overlooking an endless forest.

He didn't know that forest. His kingdom was an archipelago and this place was clearly on the continent.

He had no idea of how he'd arrived here. He remembered a party celebrating his twenty-firth birthday and him trying hydromel for the first time under the encouragements of his best friend, viscount Balthazar. He remembered eating, and drinking a couple of glasses, and—

Nothing else.

It wasn't difficult to guess what had happened: the drinks had soon been too much, and someone had seized the opportunity. They had taken advantage of his incapacitated state to have him kidnapped and brought… here.

Through his pounding headache the Prince glowered at his surroundings.

That would not do.

 

*

 

Dean looked for a Princess in need of help for a long time. Problem was: there was no Princess in need of help to be found.

He'd visited several kingdoms, but all Princesses were always accounted for. Some of them were even so insufferable, even from a distance, that Dean probably would've felt tempted to let them rot in their tower if he'd found them there, reward be damned.

But things never even came to that and Dean was growing kind of… desperate. He revised his plans downwards: he'd make do with the daughter of a duke, of a count, of a baron even. Surely they were easier to kidnap than a well-protected king's daughter, but could still be abducted for ransom?

Unfortunately he didn't hear of any daughter of a duke, of a count, of a baron even, who would've gone missing, no matter where he went.

What he _did_ hear, at long last, wasn't about a Princess—nor a Duchess, a Countess, or even a Baroness. It was about a Prince. Or at least a Noble.

Dean was at a tavern in a lost village at the back end of a lost kingdom whose name even its inhabitants didn't know, at the edge of an immense lost forest. It was night. He was eating a little bit of stale bread he'd been able to obtain from the owner by helping her reset the shoe her carthorse had thrown. At the table beside his, a drunk villager was bragging.

The man was going on and on about how a stranger had paid him a hefty sum to bring bread, butter, dried meat and fruit to what he called "the old castle" every other day. When his table companion teased him about helping keeping a poor innocent Princess in captivity like in the stories, the villager burst out laughing. Oh no, he said, no, there was no Princess. But there was definitely a man. The villager had heard him shout and curse and try to stop the mechanism allowing people to send food into his room without being seen—but what could you do against moving stone, eh?

When his companion asked who the prisoner was, the villager replied he didn't know.

When his companion asked what he'd done wrong to end up locked up in a castle, the villager replied he didn't care.

When his companion asked if it didn't bother him to contribute to someone's captivity even though they might be innocent, the villager replied that the pay was good and that his companion was just jealous he hadn't been the one the stranger had approached.

Dean was eavesdropping so bad that he wouldn't have been surprised if his ears had fallen off. He didn't move an inch, didn't breathe.

Unfortunately at that point the conversation devolved into yet another drunken fight and the two men were thrown out soon after.

Still, Dean had a lead.

Sure, he thought as he brushed Impala before they went to sleep—his helping out the innkeeper having also granted him the righ to sleep in the barn—, the person in need of rescue wasn't a Princess. The situation wasn't anywhere close to what Dean had planned. There was no chance of a wedding, for one—and okay, he might've held out hope for such an outcome, so what? He'd look dashing as a Prince Consort, he was sure.

But that wasn't the point. The point was, he reflected as he fed Impala a piece of stale bread he'd saved for her, a King who would be thankful for the rescue of his daughter would definitely be thankful for the rescue of his son too. Right?

Right.

The following morning, he asked the owner of the tavern for directions to "the old castle", on the pretense that he was on a trip to see the region's landmarks. He took off right after sunrise.

It was a long journey, even on horseback. Apparently, the lord who'd had this castle built had done so with the objective to stay as far away from people as he possibly could. He'd died there alone, without family or friends, a bottle of whiskey his only companion.

It was a sad story.

But what it boiled down to for Dean was that riding through the forest until he reached the lord's former dwellings couldn't be done within a day. Night fell long before he'd arrived.

As soon as it became difficult to see the trees and branches and roots, he dismounted, ate some stale bread and gave Impala some too, lay down, and went right to sleep.

 

*

 

Let's take advantage of that short pause in the narration to spare a word on Impala.

The reader might wonder how come we haven't counted her amongst Dean's few yet precious possessions. He or she or it or they might also wonder how Dean had come to acquire her, since he was poor as dirt.

The answers to these questions are very simple, and will be important to the rest of the story, so here goes:

One, Impala wasn't counted amongst Dean's few yet precious possessions because she's a living being, and living beings don't belong to anyone but themselves. If you think otherwise: what the Hell is wrong with you? She was Dean's companion, part of his family and he loved her almost as much as his brother Sam.

Two, how Impala had joined the Winchester family was quite a story. She'd been born at the farm of a man who indeed thought that living beings could belong to him. From her first few steps as a filly she'd stood against the very thought. By the time she'd grown enough to be shod, she'd bitten, kicked and almost maimed her so-called owner so many times he was reaching the end of his patience. He couldn't keep her. He couldn't sell her. He'd more or less expected her to kill whoever tried to approach her with an iron shoe and nails.

She didn't. That person turned out to be Dean and for him she stood like a lamb, listening to him blabbering about Sam and praising her for being so quiet.

She almost bit off the farmer's fingers when he came to fetch her. That was when he threw in the towel. He brokered a deal with Dean: the boy got to keep Impala and in exchange he'd grant the farmer his services as a blacksmith for free for a whole year. Dean had been hesitant—the farmer was one of Bobby's best clients and biggest sources of income—but both Sam and Bobby had urged him to accept. One look from Impala had been enough to make him cave in.

So he had more or less bought Impala from a first owner. Yet no one—neither he, nor Sam, nor Bobby—saw it that way. Impala was her own person and every day she spent with them was a day she chose to spend with them.

She didn't let anyone ride her, or even touch her, apart from Dean, and sometimes Sam. No matter where they went, Dean never attached her, because she was free to go if she so wished—and because whoever tried to make her go anywhere against her will would find out soon enough that it wasn't something they could do if they valued their fingers or nose or kneecaps.

Up until now she hadn't left. She loved Dean as much as he loved her, after all, and with him she was happy.

 

*

 

This parenthesis will explain why in the middle of the night Dean was woken up by an indignant whinny, the sound of a hoof hitting flesh, and a pained grunt.

Dean startled up. In the pitch-black darkness he couldn't see much, but could hear Impala to his left and make out a white shape lying prone on the ground a couple feet farther.

He intervened before the mare could trample the poor thing, because in his opinion not even thieves deserved to end their lives with their ribcage smashed in and their entrails reduced to a pulp.

"You okay?" he asked the lump once Impala had relented with a last threatening snort. When the lump moved and stood up, Dean realized the white blob he was seeing was probably a shirt.

"Yes," a male voice replied.

"Who're you?" Dean wanted to know. He was wary of nightly encounters in the forest.

"Who are _you_?" the man retorted.

"I asked first."

"Your horse almost killed me."

"You tried to steal her."

Even without seeing the man's face, Dean knew he was glaring at him, and returned it.

"… My name is Castiel," the man finally answered.

Dean almost snorted. What kind of name was that? "I'm Dean."

"What are you doing here, Dean?"

Dean pouted as he gauged he situation, but waged that answering couldn't cause too much harm. He had Impala, after all. "Rescue mission."

"I beg your pardon?"

Dean rolled his eyes. "You know the old castle?"

"Yes," the man replied, sounding somber. "I most certainly do."

"There's a guy stuck in there right now. I'm here to get him out."

"Why would you do that?"

"Well," Dean drawled. "Hopefully he'll be grateful for my help and give me something in return. You know, I help him, he helps me, everyone leaves happy."

"So you're a prize hunter." The way he said it, Dean was worth even less than the dirt at the bottom of his shoe.

Dean bristled. "Look, it's probably escaped your notice in whatever pretty little palace you live in—" Because between the man's weird yet posh accent, his name and his shirt that was white enough to be seen in the freaking _dark_ , Dean was pretty sure he was a Noble, probably a friend of the Prince who'd come to rescue him, which made him and Dean _rivals_. "—but not everyone is rolling in money. We do what we can to get by. So really, who the Hell are you to judge me?"

There was a brief silence.

"I'm the Prince," the man answered, like Dean's question hadn't been rhetorical.

Dean snorted. "Of course you're a Prince. Good for you."

"No, I mean, I'm _the_ Prince. The one who was in the castle." Another silence settled. "I escaped."

"No, you didn't," Dean said.

"I did," the man—the Prince—said. "Why do you think I was trying to steal your horse in the middle of the night?"

Impala huffed indignantly and stomped her hoof down.

"But…" Dean floundered. "You can't do that!"

"You'll have noticed that yes, I can. And I did," the Prince replied testily. "It took me several days to find a way to scale down the tower from the outside and to tear my sheets into a rope but—"

"But no!" Dean exclaimed. "You're not allowed to be able to do that! How are honest people supposed to live if you're not hapless idiots anymore?"

"Oh, so now you're 'honest people'?" The sarcasm was clear.

"Hey, I don't steal," Dean protested. "Not unless I have to. Or I steal from a dick who really deserves it."

"That's a lot of exceptions," the Prince pointed out.

"Shut up, like _you_ don't steal from your people. They pay your taxes and what do they get in return? Jack squat."

"I guarantee their protection," the Prince said haughtily.

Dean scoffed. "Yeah, right."

"My kingdom," the Prince went on icily, "is an archipelago renowned for the precious jewels you can find in its underwater caves. Every single island is constantly prey to pirates—and every single one of their attacks is pushed back by our soldiers and ships."

Well. That was unexpected. "Uh," was all Dean could say.

"We also provide free schools and health insurance for all."

"I have no idea what that is," Dean said. "But still, I'm honest. I didn't lie to you, did I?"

"No," the Prince agreed, "you didn't."

Another silence followed.

"I'll… go now," the Prince said. "I'm sorry for my lack of… incapableness."

"Yeah, yeah," Dean dismissed, returning to the tree under which he'd been sleeping. "Damn it," he muttered to himself. "Sammy was right, wasn't he?"

"Who's Sammy?"

"My little brother. Who needs food to grow up properly and clothes not to freeze to death next winter and books because he's smart as Hell and deserves _better_ —" He kicked at the trunk in frustration. "What are you still doing here?" he snapped.

He could feel the Prince's gaze on him. It lingered long enough for things to grow kind of… uncomfortable.

"There is one thing," the Prince said after a while. "I was indeed able to escape the castle on my own but… I have no idea where I am. Or where the nearest village is."

"Oh," Dean said. "I know that."

"What a fine coincidence," the Prince said. "I would, of course, be… extremely grateful if you could help me find my way there."

Dean stared incredulously.

"Okay?" he finally said, confused. "Not until morning though. Walking through a forest at night sucks."

"So I have noticed," the Prince said. "Very well, then." He sat down where he was, then laid down. "Good night."

"Uh," Dean said, still confused. "'Night."

 

*

 

The first thing Dean noticed the following morning was that the Prince really looked like, well. A Prince. He had short dark hair, eyes blue as the deep summer sky and piercing like those of a bird of prey, a straight and strong nose, plump rosy lips. The rest of his body, clad in fine but solid garments, made it obvious that he trained often and kept himself active throughout his days. He held himself impeccably straight, his head proudly high. His hands were all grace, obviously as skilled with a quill as they were with a sword—or with the dagger at his belt.

"It was in my boot," the Prince explained when he noticed Dean's staring. "The idiots who kidnapped me didn't even check for hidden weapons."

He sounded profoundly peeved at having been abducted by someone that stupid.

"You could've used that," Dean pointed out. "Yesterday."

And Dean wouldn't have been able to do much to protect himself, with nothing but a short rusted knife he'd never had do use that way.

"My aim was to steal your horse. Not hurt it."

"Her," Dean corrected.

They set off on foot. Impala followed them half a dozen feet behind, watching the Prince warily as if waiting for an excuse, the faintest gesture that might be interpreted as a threat, to trample him.

They reached the village within a day. The Prince, who'd also had some money hidden in his other boot, paid for a room at the tavern with a bed and a cot which felt like heaven under Dean's back. The hostess first refused the Prince's coins, as she'd never seen anything resembling them in her life—until he pointed out they were made of silver, at which point she changed her mind.

They readied themselves to part ways the next day. Dean started to give the Prince directions to the coast—then stopped.

"You know," he said, trying to sound nonchalant, "it's quite a long way to travel, especially on foot."

He suspected that, while the Prince had money, it wasn't enough to buy a horse. Not that any were for sale in that village: all of them were useful for something.

The Prince narrowed his eyes at him. Clearly he'd seen right through Dean's calculations. "What do you suggest?"

"Well, I have a horse," Dean reminded him. "She might even be willing to carry us both to the nearest town. I mean, provided you get her some carrots for dinner."

The Prince kept squinting. A long minute passed.

"… Okay," he reluctantly said.

Impala wasn't happy with the arrangement, until the first evening, when the Prince, as per Dean's advice, brought her carrots. And apples. And bread.

"And maybe," the Prince told Dean, "you could start calling me by my name."

They reached the nearest town within a week. Castiel paid for a room at the tavern with a bed and a sofa which felt even better than the cot under Dean's back. The host frowned minutely at the foreign coins but recognized them as silver and pocketed them without question.

They readied themselves to part ways the next day. Dean started to give the Prince directions to the nearest city—then stopped.

"You know," he said with a gauging look, "it can be a dangerous road for a gentleman to travel alone."

Castiel looked at him. Clearly he was still seeing right through Dean. "What do you suggest?"

"Well, I have a knife," Dean said, "and I know how to use it."

Castiel kept looking at him. Half a minute passed.

"Okay," Castiel said.

They set up a rotating system for the nights they spent far away from any village, one of them keeping watch while the other slept, then switching.

On the third night they were attacked by monsters—werewolves, as it was the full moon. They made quick work of dispatching them.

"Guess you know how to use that dagger, Castiel," Dean said as he checked on Impala, who had knocked at least three of their adversaries unconscious in the tussle.

"About as well as you know how to use that knife," Castiel replied, "and my friends call me Cas."

They reached the nearest city within two weeks. Cas paid for a room at the inn with two beds, one of which felt even better than the sofa under Dean's back. The hostess barely glanced at Cas' foreign coins before she slid them into her till.

They readied themselves to part ways the next day. Dean started to give the Prince directions to the coast—and didn't stop.

It wasn't a difficult journey from then on. The city was close to the center of the kingdom; from there a road led right to the main harbor city in the neighboring queendom; as a main commercial street between the two countries, it was highly frequented and well-protected. There were even coaches for travelers without a horse.

What it boiled down to was that Dean had no more excuses to tag along. Which was too bad—not because it dashed his chances of obtaining a reward, no. He'd stopped acting with that aim in sight about two weeks and a half ago. But because over their days of travel, he'd gotten to know Cas better and really liked the guy. He would be sad to see him go, knowing they'd probably never see each other again.

He finished his explanations about the way Cas should take. Cas nodded.

"Good," he said. "You can go saddle Impala. I'll pay for our breakfast and meet you outside."

Dean blinked owlishly at him.

"What?" Cas frowned.

"There are coaches on that road," Dean reminded him. "Coaches that you could take. I thought—" He trailed off.

Cas kept frowning. A quarter of a minute passed.

"Well," he said. "I dislike coaches. They're uncomfortable and crowded and you never know who you might end up with as travel companions." Dean nodded in agreement. "Besides, I don't have an infinite amount of money. I have to spare what I can to pay the travel fee on the ship that'll bring me home."

Dean pursed his lips. He wasn't sure, but he thought he might be seeing right through Cas' excuses. "What do you suggest?"

"Well, I am satisfied by our arrangement," Cas said. "I wouldn't mind if it were prolonged."

Dean kept his lips pursed. A couple seconds passed.

"Okay," he said.

He went to get Impala ready.

 

*

 

Later, as Dean led Impala along the road by her bridle, he noticed Cas smiling.

"What are you grinning about?" he asked.

"Nothing," the Prince replied. "It just feels like a really good day."

Dean looked around. The sky was blue, the sun shining but not too hot. A faint breeze came to freshen his brow. The road wasn't too crowded. Its paving was smooth under his feet, lined with trees, and beyond that there were plains with, from time to time, a small village peeking out of a hollow. He had Impala with him, he had a friend.

"Yes," he said, now smiling too. "It is."

 

*

 

That second half the journey was by far the most pleasant. They'd acknowledged that they traveled together by choice and not out of necessity, that they enjoyed each other's presence. They talked more. Dean shared a little bit of his past, speaking most of all of Sam and why he'd left on this quest. Cas described his country, Graace, and its curious workings. For instance, he was Prince Elect—as in elected by his people. Dean had no idea that could happen. And that was only one thing among a flurry of others, which Dean didn't understand half the time.

He didn't care. He liked listening to Cas speak. It was obvious the guy loved his country the same way Dean loved Sam.

But like all good things, their journey came to an end. Within three weeks, they'd reached the coast, then the harbor, and Cas had found a Graak merchant willing to take him on board of his ship until it reached the archipelago.

Boy, did Cas' mother tongue sound weird.

Far too soon, the day of his departure came. Seagulls were crying overhead, their sharp wings tearing through the bright blue sky. The last of the wares were being loaded and Cas said:

"You could come with me."

He'd shed all pretenses that he wanted to be parted from Dean. Dean had shed all pretenses that he wanted to be parted from Cas too, but he shook his head.

"No way I'm getting on that thing," he said, pointing at the ship whose soft pitching was already making him seasick. "And I have to get back to Sammy."

Cas nodded, albeit reluctantly. He slid his dagger out of his belt.

"I don't have any more money to give you for your services," he said. "So please accept this as a token of my gratitude."

Dean stared at him, feeling betrayed and, yes, hurt. "You know I didn't come all this way for _that_ ," he snarled. "You can keep it."

He tried to push it back, but Cas insisted. "Dean."

"I don't want it!" Dean snapped.

"To remember me by," Cas said, a strange sort of desperation in his voice, in his eyes. "Please."

And really, how could Dean say no to that?

He pressed his lips together but let Cas put the dagger in his hand.

"Then you take my knife," he mumbled. "I know it's old and crap, but it's still sharp, and that way you'll still have something to protect yourself with." He freed the small weapon from his belt and handed it over handle first. "You got kidnapped, right? So it's entirely possible that the people who wanted you out of the picture have agents watching every port in case you come back."

Cas took the knife in a slightly trembling hand. "I will cherish it always," he said, turning it between his fingers like it was the finest work he'd ever seen and not a rusted blade Dean had attached to a crap piece of wood when he was thirteen. "Thank you, Dean."

They looked at each other for the longest time. It felt awkward, but at the same time Dean didn't want to look away. He knew that this was the last time they'd ever see each other. He wanted to commit Cas' face to memory, be sure to remembered every feature, every movement.

The ship's captain called for his sailors to embark. Cas reached out a hand and squeezed Dean's left shoulder in a way that felt significant, that probably was in his weird archipelago culture. Dean hadn't had near enough time to find out much about it. He didn't know if he should return the gesture, or not.

He settled for smiling awkwardly, nodded, blushed.

"In hopes we meet again," Cas said before he let go and stepped back.

"Sure," Dean managed—even though his voice broke a bit, like his heart, because he knew they probably wouldn't.

Then Cas was boarding the ship, and waving from over the rail, and the ship was being towed away by a couple rowboats. They led it to the exit of the harbor, where it unfolded its sails and took off, carried by the wind. It became smaller and smaller, until melted into the horizon, disappearing like it was taking Cas back to an underwater legendary realm.

 

*

 

Dean stood on the pier for a long time.

The ship didn't come back.

Night fell.

Dean went home.

 

*

 

He was silent on his way back. Silent as he left the harbor, as he left the Queendom; silent as he crossed into the next kingdom, as he reached the one he'd grown up in. He was silent as Bobby's village came into view, as he arrived in front of Bobby's shop; silent as he dismounted and led Impala to the small hut they'd built for her out back.

Bobby and Sam took one look at his face and didn't ask. They let him be—for a day, a week, a month.

After that, Sam managed to pry the story out of him.

"And all I got in the end was that dumb dagger," Dean said when he reached the end of it, taking the weapon out from under his pillow where he'd been keeping it, safe and close. His mother's storybook, which had previously occupied that place, had moved to his bedside table. "I bet he thought I could sell it in case of need—which is a completely _stupid_ idea, because if a guy like _me_ tries to sell a weapon like this, then of course people will think I stole it, and I'll end up in prison, or with my hands cut off, or in prison _with_ my hands cut off and it'll get infected and I'll _die_ and get eaten by _rats_."

He didn't mention the main reason why the idea of selling the dagger was "stupid": it was a token, the only sure, concrete sign that him meeting Cas and traveling with him hadn't been a dream.

"Can I see it?" Sam asked. Over the years, he'd gotten used to his brother's graphic and overdramatic imagination.

"Sure," Dean said and handed it over. "Don't scratch it," he warned.

Sam almost rolled his eyes. "I'm not an ape, Dean," he reminded him.

"Wouldn't know it, looking at you," Dean mumbled, referring to how gangly his brother had become over the time he'd been gone. That growth spurt had also had the effect of making Sam grow taller than his older brother. Dean was a little bit peeved.

Sam ignored him and turned over the blade between his hands. His eyebrows rose. "It looks Graak," he said to himself.

"No shit," Dean snorted. "That's where it's from. Graace."

Sam stared at him. "Cas is the Prince of the Graak Islands?"

"Well, yeah. I told you that."

"No, you didn't, you just told me he was a Prince from overseas," Sam said, voice rising into a screech. "What the Hell, Dean? The _Prince of Graace_ asked you to come with him?"

"Yeah, I told you that too."

"And you _refused_?"

"Well, I had to come home to you, didn't I?" Dean growled, aggravated—because no matter what he'd said and how seasick he'd felt at the sight of it, he would have climbed onto that ship, if it hadn't been for Sam.

"Who cares about me?" Sam said. "Dean, they have… They have schools and libraries and everything—and you were invited by the Prince Elect himself? You could've gone anywhere, studied anything, become anyone—"

"All I want," Dean cut him off, "is to stop wondering when we will next get to eat or if we'll even survive the next winter."

"Exactly!" Sam said. "They have social welfare there!" Dean had no idea what that was. "And the winter is nowhere near as bad as it can get here. Dean, you _have_ to go. The invitation still stands, right?"

"I don't know," Dean said. "And even if it does, I can't."

"Why?" Sam wailed.

"Because what about you?"

"What about me? I'm totally coming with you, that's what!" Sam exclaimed. "Surely, if the Prince is as nice as you say, he'll let me tag along. Right?"

He looked at Dean expectantly. When Dean didn't reply, his eyes softened and he asked: "Please?"

There was one thing to know about Dean Winchester: whenever his little brother looked at him like that, he'd never been able to say no.

 

*

 

Meanwhile in Graace, the Prince Elect had had enough.

It had barely been three months since his return and half the time he found himself wondering why he'd come back at all. When he'd reappeared at the castle it had been obvious who at the court and in the government was genuinely happy to see him, and who quite clearly wasn't. Since then it had been nothing but meetings upon meetings to catch up on all he'd missed in the months he'd been away, and to discreetly squash the rebellion with its greedy, anti-constitutional purposes.

They wanted to restore an absolutist hereditary monarchy in order to gather the benefits of the gem caves in the hands of a selected elite, instead of giving it all back to the people. What a joke.

Most of the movement's leaders had been imprisoned, the ones who had been careful enough not to leave proofs of their involvement sent away through 'promotions' to positions that were well-paid, far away and didn't hold much power so that they couldn't do any more harm. Some had been convinced to rally the people's cause, like Naomi, in return for the job of Graak ambassador to the Moondoor Queendom, which she'd long coveted.

Finding them all and dealing with them was a very slow, fastidious process. Castiel was annoyed by it, by them, by the situation, and the more his annoyance grew, the more he missed Dean. Dean, who hadn't been anything but honest, who was poor but who, presented with a whole diamond mine, would've shared it with everyone around him, his family, his village, his country—Castiel knew. He would never have hoarded it all for himself, never would've exploited anyone to try and obtain as many jewels as possible at a minimal cost.

Dean had more value in his little finger than all these despicable conspirators combined. He was brave, and kind-hearted, and righteous, and true, and Castiel had had no chance, really. He'd fallen right in love with him, so hard and so fast—enough to let him go, in the end.

That was before he realized how used to Dean's presence he'd grown, how dreary the world looked and sounded without him, how hateful everything and everyone felt in his absence.

How much Castiel missed him.

"I've had enough," he declared at the end of yet another day of negotiations and investigations and paperwork. Even taking care of his people had lost its appeal.

"I understand," Hannah said. As head of the parliament, she'd acted as regent in his absence and had taken the brunt of the crisis the rebels had tried to unleash in that time of weakness. She'd withstood it brilliantly—but she'd been more than happy to hand back over the reigns upon his return.

He felt almost sorry for what he was about to do.

"I'm leaving," he said.

"Okay," she replied, gathering her documents and standing up. "I'll see you tomorrow then."

"No," Castiel said. "I won't be here. I'm boarding a ship. Tonight."

She stared.

 

*

 

In the end, having a ship prepared for him took a lot more time than he would've wished or thought. He was Prince Elect: he couldn't abandon his duties, especially not so soon after an unexpected disappearance that had worried all his citizens sick.

His trip was disguised as a hastily arranged diplomatic visit to one of their main economic partners on the continent.

Uriel, the head of his personal security service, wasn't happy about it all. Castiel would've felt bad, if not for the fact that he'd realized that, for anyone to kidnap him, they would've had to go through him and his men. And that, given Uriel's qualifications, it was impossible for them to have managed that—unless he'd let them.

So: he couldn't be trusted. Castiel was still trying to figure out how to get rid of him without provoking his ire.

Yet his heart was filled with nothing but joy and expectancy when they finally sailed off. He would owe Hannah a big favor for once again leaving the country in her hands, but right now he couldn't care less. He counted the days until he could see Dean again.

After a week's journey their ships arrived in the harbor where he and Dean had parted. Castiel took advantage of the docking turmoil to slip away and disembark unnoticed. He had to find Dean before anything else.

Due to how and where he'd been raised—in an archipelago where every inhabitant of a given island knew all the others inhabitants of said island and a couple neighboring ones—, Castiel wasn't a very practical man. He stepped off the ship and asked the first people he came across if they could tell him where he could find a young man with dark blond hair and green eyes named Dean, who had a little brother named Sam. He fully expected them to not only know him but also be able to indicate him where he was exactly.

He had no idea that Dean had been born and raised two and a half countries over, and that even if he hadn't been, even if he'd grown up in this very harbor, its populations was so numerous and varied and changing that people rarely kept track of their own neighbors.

Fortunately—or unfortunately—he wasn't meant to realize any of that that day. The first people Castiel had come across answered:

"Dean and Sam? Sure we know them, they're working on the docks right now. You'll find them unloading old Devereaux' shipment."

And, after having asked where he could find old Devereaux' boat, that's exactly where Castiel found them.

Their reunion didn't go quite as planned, as all Castiel found to say once he'd reached Dean was: "I thought you worked for a blacksmith."

Dean, who'd been focused on carefully putting down the barrel he'd been carrying and thus hadn't heard him approach, startled and almost upended the whole row.

"Cas!" he exclaimed, before frowning. "Cas? What are you doing here?"

"I was looking for you," Castiel said. He took Dean's hands in his. They were calloused but large and warm. Castiel didn't want to ever let go. "I've realized I'd made a mistake leaving you so soon, and I've come back to ask you, again, if you would want to come with me. Life is… awful without you." He noticed the overgrown boy peering curiously at them from a dozen feet away. "Is this Sam?" he asked. "He can come with us, of course. I know you don't want to be parted from one another and I'd never ask you to choose between us. He'll have free access to all our libraries, even the one belonging to our university."

"I still have no idea what a freaking university is," Dean pointed out.

"So what do you say?" Castiel asked, too nervous to stop and explain now.

Dean ducked his head. "Um, actually… We moved here to find work to try and gather enough money to pay for a trip to your islands?"

He didn't mention how they'd barely made it to the harbor, as they'd had no money during the journey.

Castiel froze, incredulous. Some part of him hadn't believed Dean would accept, he realized.

"There's no need for that now," he said. "My ship will take you. We can board right now."

And he would've brought Dean right back to his ship, never letting go of his hand, if Dean hadn't stopped him.

"Wait, wait, wait a minute," he said. "You can't tell me you've only come here for that, for me."

"Technically, I'm on a diplomatic visit, yes, but—"

"But no buts," Dean protested, looking indignant. "Hell, they're probably looking _everywhere_ for you right now, and after your kidnapping it's really not the time to pull a disappearing act."

"Dean—" Castiel said when Dean turned him around and pushed him back the way he'd come.

"Nope, you have to go back. Go play Prince Elect and do your negotiations. Me 'n Sam will be right here when you finish. We promised old Devereaux we would unload his ship so we will unload his ship to the last jar and barrel. Then we can all go. Okay?"

Castiel was reluctant, but sighed. "Okay."

And that's exactly what they did.

 

*

 

They left a few days later, Dean and Sam with a hefty payment from old Devereaux, Castiel with an outline for a new and improved commercial contract with his ally.

Unsurprisingly Dean was atrociously seasick during the whole journey.

Unsurprisingly he was very obnoxious about it, complaining incessantly, asking to be put out of his misery and only toning his whining down when Castiel was lying next to him, brushing his hair away from his sweaty forehead and humming traditional songs from his home island.

Surprisingly, all that insufferable behavior soon made Uriel hit the roof: within three days he'd quit his job in a fit of rage and stolen a lifeboat to return to the continent.

 

*

 

The docks were crowded when the ship reached the harbor of the archipelago's main island. Even though the official message communicated to the people and the press had presented the Prince's trip as a purely diplomatic endeavor, there had been rumors. And rumors spread fast, especially in a small country, especially when they are about the personal life of a beloved leader.

In short, despite how successful the Prince ended up being in his negotiations, everyone knew, or thought they knew, that he'd actually left on a short quest to find his One True Love again, the brave stranger who had helped him escape from the dungeon in which he'd been imprisoned by Evil Conspirators but who had had to stay behind when the Prince had come home, for unknown—but probably tragic—reasons.

Speculations ran high about that mysterious stranger. Some said it was a young shepherd who had found the castle where the Prince was imprisoned while looking for a wayward sheep, but who had refused to leave his sick mother behind once all had been said and done. Some said it was a young woman of incredible skills and beauty, who hunted in the woods where the castle stood and had had no problem breaking the Prince out of his prison, but who was cursed never to cross the line of the trees, or turn into a bloodthirsty monster if she did. Some said it was a knight errand helping those in distress, who had helped the Prince but was secretly the lost King or Queen of a country on the continent which they had to go back to…

Everyone in Graace was excited to hear that their Prince Elect had decided to find that stranger again despite the obstacles, because none could withstand the power of their Love. And they were eager to solve the mystery and catch a glimpse of that Hero, young and brave and strong and true, who had saved their Prince and the Kingdom. Hence the thousands of people who had gathered in a space much too narrow to contain all of them at once.

They were all disappointed: true, the Prince wasn't alone when he stepped off the ship. But the young men accompanying him did not look like heroes at all. One was a youth, almost a child still, looking around with the wide eyes and giddy grin of someone who's never seen a battle in their life. The other, who fitted their expectations more, was sickly pale, almost green, his legs so weak and shaky he couldn't even walk on his own.

The Prince supported him all the way down the gangplank—and the care with which he held him, the pause he took once they'd reached solid ground to make sure his companion could regain his bearings, the worry in his eyes that dissolved into fondness when the young man straightened a bit and gave him a weak but sincere smile, that, at least, stayed in the people's mind. It made them realize that yes, the rumors had been true.

The Prince had returned. And he'd brought his Beloved home.

 

*

 

In the following years, that first mitigated impression correct itself, of course.

The Prince was happy. Not that he'd been unhappy before, but he hadn't had that smile constantly lingering at the bottom of his eyes, at the corner of his lips. He'd always ruled fairly, but now he was closer to the people too, taking requests during audiences, visiting even the remotest islands, smiling at children wherever he went—and everyone knew whose influence they had to thank for that. He was never kidnapped again, never left the Kingdom without warning, and if he sometimes disappeared for one or two (duly planned) weeks, no one could begrudge him that, nor his wish to be alone with the man he loved.

Said man quickly grew on everyone, with his exotic fair hair, his green eyes, his freckles, his adorable continental accent. Officially he was nothing but the Prince's Friend at first, then his Best Friend—until he became his Fiancé and all pretense disappeared. Through sheer stubbornness he managed to overcome his seasickness so he could join the ranks of the soldiers defending the archipelago against the pirates led by the Evil King Crowley. He distinguished himself through so many heroic deeds and clever tactics that he rapidly climbed through the ranks and, by the time he became Prince Consort, had a whole ship under his command—the strongest ship in the whole fleet, everyone said. Graace had never been safer.

The other young man the Prince had brought back with him, Dean's brother Sam, was remarked for his height and his smarts, liked for his clumsiness, his kindness, his obvious joy at learning the Graak language. He could be seen every morning walking from the palace to the university library, and back every evening. Thanks to his rare intelligence and the help of several students and teachers who'd been charmed by his eagerness to learn, he'd soon caught up enough on every subject to be admitted to college and start studying in earnest. He was showing an interest in law. The people couldn't wait for him to become the best lawyer of the realm.

Every month, they sent a little amount of money to Bobby and Impala, who'd preferred to stay on the continent. They visited from time to time, though.

And they all lived happily ever after.

(Well, all except for the Evil Conspirators, but we'll all agree they got what they deserved.)

 

*

 

THE END

 


End file.
